Late August brought with it my long anticipated road trip north to the historic Oregon Writers Colony Colonyhouse in Rockaway Beach, Oregon. A trip I’d been planning for a year. The time to “kill my darlings” had finally come. I’m quoting William Faulkner there. He was speaking to the act of “letting go of the bits of your writing you are holding onto selfishly.”

Looking down into the dining room where my darlings, or rather, scraps of paper and Post-It notes still needing to be “merged” into my memoir manuscript cover the table. I kept about half the ideas. “Killed” or recycled the rest.

A semi-unexpected surprise was the hominess of the Colonyhouse itself. I knew that the writers’ house (more like a lodge) was established back in 1988, when I was three years old. So I expected the writing desks strewn throughout every room and the impressive collection of coffee mugs hanging in the kitchen. But what caught me by pleasant surprise was how much it smelled like my great aunt’s house and the moment when I stumbled upon a signed copy of my favorite author’s memoir. It was the epitome of homey. Like, I didn’t want to leave.

The Colonyhouse was designed by the same architect who created Oregon’s Timberline Lodge at Mt. Hood. All the little details, down to the doorknobs, were a wonder.

My writing goals for the five day stay at the Colonyhouse were mammoth. I was going to incorporate into my manuscript all the feedback I had received from my critique group, all the changes I had outlined for myself into my manuscript in red pen, all the “notes” you saw earlier, and write an ending. Endings are hard. Writing is hard. Editing is hard! All of it is just plain hard. I had to take deep breaths and remind myself of two things. Number one, Anne Lamott’s well-earned advice: Bird by bird. Number two, it’s all about the journey!

Mid week. Notes. Office supplies. Coffee. Water. And a view of the ocean.

Once I got over the initial shock of all that I was trying to accomplish, I started setting goals. Attainable goals. I incorporated all the feedback needed make my manuscript shine (or rather, stand up on two shaky legs). I wrote an ending and accepted that it will need more work. (First drafts of chapters typically aren’t ready for publication!) I embraced what I would be leaving with: a completed fourth draft. And let go of what I would not be leaving with: a draft that’s ready for querying. Most importantly, I took moments to be grateful, experience joy, and celebrate in my own sacred little ways.

Something else happened, too. Existing inside of my story all day every day for five days was quite emotional. There were tears and reflection and ruminating. I realized that telling my story is a lot like holding up a massively heavy thing for everyone to see. It is deeply emotional work, especially the ground that I delicately try to cover in The Poetry of Place.

I am superstitious when it comes to the craft of writing. I have to have certain objects that invoke inspiration, such as certain books, Dad’s Spirit Path cards, and my satchel of crystals, pictured here.

Wrapping up the five day writing retreat was bittersweet. My writing spells, interspersed with walks on the beach, and sleeping to the sound of ocean waves, would be missed. My only solace was that ever other writer I know would likely have also found the retreat too short to cover the creative distance they wanted. So I leaned on my old, trusted way of thinking, and reminded myself that my manuscript is 100% better than it was.

I also left with the understanding that my story is getting too heavy to lift. And although it is not there yet, it is getting ready to take flight. I can feel it.

Love,

Mama Bird

Sunset at Rockaway Beach, Oregon